In us is the thousandfold Spirit who is one,
An eternal thinker calm and great and wise,
A seer whose eye is an all-regarding sun,
A poet of the cosmic mysteries.

A critic Witness pieces everything
And binds the fragments in his brilliant sheaf;
A World-adventurer borne on Destiny’s wing
Gambles with death and triumph, joy and grief.

A king of greatness and a slave of love,
Host of the stars and guest in Nature’s inn,
A high spectator Spirit throned above,
A pawn of passion in the game divine,

One who has made in sport the suns and seas
Mirrors in our being his immense caprice.

I do not know if there can be a poem so beautiful like this. Why did the editors not prescribe it for courses? Why could they not pick it up for? Here metaphysics appals us, shines all through the poem, sparkles it. We think within if all is the lila, the Lila of God. Lila as a poem was composed much before independence, but the poem can show his dhyana and yoga so grappling with metaphysics and trying to come to terms with resultant realization. What it physics, metaphysics? What the metaphysics of the world? What it lives by? Who is it who governs all the things? What the purpose of creation? What it to uphold us? How to live by? What the secrets, mysteries of creation? It is but metaphysics, pure metaphysics. It is not about lila, Ramlila, Krishnalila; it is but about abstract matters.

To see something with a coloured prism and something bereft of and in a bare form is to go through the crude stuffs. The world is nothing, but a mass of matter which is shaped and re-shaped from time to time. Sometimes we explain it lila in a colourful way and sometimes aligning with fate or destiny. Everything is but a lila of His, leaving unto. But to attempt a constructive criticism is to say that the poet generalizes it too much and we get lost into a world of mind, mass and matter, going somewhere to nowhere.

Where does the pathway end, none can say it about? Nirguna Brahma, laid bare of, the Formless Divine in terms of metaphysics is the chief property of Aurbindo. Aurobindo tries to see the things in an abstract and crude form but using Western logic and reasoning, letting no scope to doubt and suspense as because these sometimes mislead to in utter ritualism. But it is very difficult to say about the forces of life. Times hang heavy over us so do the situations and circumstances. The shapes of things keep about changing. The history of time, the history of man, the history of earth, everything is but wrapped in mystery. But how to deny it life? How to accept it all? Can metaphysics be the only solution of all? As long as we are here on this earth, let us enjoy the discourses put forward by great sages and seers. What is right or wrong we know it not, what is true or false? But prana vibrates it as green vegetation from the bare earth too is the truth never to be denied. 

In the first part of the sonnet, the poet says it that the Spirit is one whose spirit is in us, what it is possessive of is but a streak of His consciousness. An eternal thinker, He is calm, great and wise and his eye is an all-guarding sun. A poet of cosmic mysteries, the world is His creation. The words used in open a plethora of discussion. God is an eternal thinker. He is calm, great and wise whose greatness can be seen reflected in it all. A poet of cosmic mysteries, who, God is Himself, tells us in a unique way the poetic vision of His. Cosmic mysteries are but a good topic.

In us is the thousandfold Spirit who is one,
An eternal thinker calm and great and wise,
A seer whose eye is an all-regarding sun,
A poet of the cosmic mysteries.

A critic Witness what does the poet mean to say it here? How the will and testament? The records of evidence? Who the witness, the Witness of witnesses? He is the Joiner of fragments and the Fragmenter of the same who can look up every piece of criticism. A World-adventurer, he journeys to unknown dark seas winged on Destiny’s wing gambling with life and death, joy and grief. The poet means to say it that life and death are the creations of His. On reading it, we feel it within, how had it been the experiences of Vasco da Gama, Columbus and so on? How had it been the experiences of Ulysses and the Mariner? How does Lawrence take to it in The Ship of Death? Who is the Critic of critics? Who pieces together the fragmentary criticism?

A critic Witness pieces everything
And binds the fragments in his brilliant sheaf;
A World-adventurer borne on Destiny’s wing
Gambles with death and triumph, joy and grief.

A king beyond the comprehension of human mind and understanding, is above us, a great king whose greatness we cannot measure it, but a slave to love. It is He who hosts the stars, a guest in Nature’s inn. A high spectator Spirit above, but a pawn of passion in the game Divine is the Creator. The words are very meaningful and significant no doubt. Where Nature’s inn, how the guest of it? God Himself is the Divine Guest in Nature’s inn.

A king of greatness and a slave of love,
Host of the stars and guest in Nature’s inn,
A high spectator Spirit throned above,
A pawn of passion in the game divine,

The concluding lines of the sonnet themselves speak of the caprice implied in and the sport with which he has built the whole edifice to be reflected in:

One who has made in sport the suns and seas
Mirrors in our being his immense caprice.

Lila is definitely a splendid poem from the hands of Sri Aurobindo so radiant with thought and idea, metaphysics and spirituality, so resplendent with the theological and cosmological stuffs. Sri Aurobindo is trying to understand mass and matter, mind and spirit. The resultant discussion leads to the reckoning of the Soul of the Universe, the Mind of the Matter, the Formation of the Mass and the Consciousness of the Being. How the Spirit of the Matter? As a result of that, we seem to be grappling with existential things. What is God? What is Man? How the things of the world? How the framework of the universe? Lila is replete with existential thoughts and ideas.

The word ‘lila’ means play and it has been used to relate to the play, scenic play. How the furrows of the world? It is but Divinity which shapes our ends or but Destiny which, which is what we cannot say it? The intellect of Aldous Huxley and George Bernard Shaw is so strong in him. Something of F.H. Bradley can be traced to in this short poem of deliberation. A sense of cosmic vision pervades the poetic spirit of the poet, and it has been transcended to some extent. The heart of the matter is cosmic mysteries.